


baby, we're millennial (and isn't it something?)

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Modern AU, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, because it's a, but today is not that day ;p, coffee shop AU, i dunno fam we're just here to have fun ;p, someday I will return to writing traditionally, technically they're not sisters in this tho, warning in advance: this is pretty much self indulgent crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: Sabrina's mirth dies slowly, and her eyes grow thoughtful.“Yeah... no. They’re not married. They’re just... They’re roommates.”The Internet demon that possesses your humor howls, proud and unrelenting and hideous.Oh my god.They’re roommates.





	baby, we're millennial (and isn't it something?)

**Author's Note:**

> no editing could save this.  
> i may go back later and fix my grammar.  
> but probably not.

 

It starts as most eventfully uneventful things do — with rain.

Buckets of it, pelting down on poor unsuspecting folk who just want to be home and snuggling up with a book and fluff beast.

And also, you.

Also wanting to be inside and snuggling a book and fluff beast.

But home is too far to sprint to.

And sprinting, in its own right and especially under bullet weather, is nasty.

Taking cover under store canopies that do little to shield your head from hard dollops of water, you dash into the nearest cafe.

You’re greeted by a black fluff beast, hissing because you’ve interrupted his nap upon the welcome mat.

“Salem, be nice.”

Pep embodied, a blonde teenager wrinkles her nose at the cat, then smiles at you in a frenzy of energy only teenagers seem able to possess.

“Welcome to Brews & Bites, I’m Sabrina. What’s your poison?”

It’s spoken in one breath, one word, really.

Hard gulp.

What sort of madness have you rushed into?

Eyeful in, bug-eyed out.

This is not a cafe describable in realistic adjectives.

Or unmade-up words.

First, there are doors.

Everywhere.

Tiny ones that would require any person over the age of 8 to squat down in a very undignified manner to get through, and a few so tall they quite honestly reach the ceiling. Which you couldn’t touch, even with a particularly spirited jump. Or a ladder.

Second, the furniture follows no pattern, yet is settled as though there should be no alternative.

It’s obscenely obvious, the way the leather couch must go with a brown-stain table. The lace doily centering a robin’s egg nightstand that, of course, belongs next to the velvet armchair.

The carpet, so shag it could still be called a sheep, certainly must cover only half the floor.

Cacophony of textures.

Strange, but settles the soul in some unearthly calling of recognition.

Alice’s adventures in mirrors and rabbit holes have got nothing on this. Because this madness only makes sense.

Or maybe sense has already gone mad.

You digress.

Third, the art is...

Historical.

If history only consisted of the Salem witch trials, painted herbs that cannot possibly be nonfiction, and random household-fixing paraphernalia.

There is, quite literally, a hammer wedged headfirst in the wall.

“Well,” impatience snags your attention again, the Sabrina girl’s arms are crossed, and she taps her foot.

“Are you going to order anything, or do I have to shove you back out in the rain?”

 

~*~

 

You settle on chamomile tea.

Everything else on the menu besides chai and decaf does not read like English.

You’d swear you saw both Russian and Mandarin on the board if it hadn’t changed.

You’re still not sure how it did.

Sabrina shrugs, says everything’s gone electronic.

There aren’t any wires or tell-tale screen glare, but you’re still too hyper aware she’d offered you poison to comment on it.

It’s a common saying, but there’s just something in her smile that warns hemlock is as natural an ingredient used as honey.

When she brings you a glass pot and a clump of leaves, you can’t help but eye it warily.

She only giggles, pours in the scalding water.

You can’t help but gasp as the tight pack of dry leaves unfurl, bright little flowers waking in hot water. Liquid gold and pops of chrysanthemum.

Steam rises, caresses your nose in sunshine and summer tickling.

You breathe deeper.

The world perks up.

It’s as though rain and clouds do not exist, though you could turn your head and they’d still be raging outside the window.

You take a sip.

Coat of contentment settles like a film of magic on your tongue.

Salem settles on your lap, kneading his sharp little claws and fluffy paws on the soft cloud your sweater makes.

It hurts, you admit.

Worth it.

Salem accepts scritches between the ears, purrs so hard the tea rumbles in your belly along with his hurring.

This is enchantment.

Must be, you’ve never felt so soothed in your life.

Night on your lap, sunshine in your stomach, rain in your ears.

It’s lovely. It’s lulling.

Your eyes slip shut.

You dream.

Only sweet things.

 

~*~

 

“You’ve killed it.”

A low voice asserts.

Eyes wiggle under lids, you can’t open them yet.

“I have  _not_.”

Sabrina’s voice. Decidedly sulky.

“They’re fine, Zelds,” comes a soft, British chirp. “Just dozing, poor dear. Must have been exhausted.”

“A brief stint in the rain does not make one succumb to unconsciousness, Hilda.”

It’s the assertive voice again.

Sudden remembrance of the day collides with your snoozing.

Eyes open wide and quick.

A woman is peering down at you, crouched close. Blue eye shadow and little crinkles at the corner lids, beneficence in that cornflower gaze.

You risk a glance at the other’s gaze, also peering down. Eyes also so blue.

Less beneficence.

Lips pursed, dress formal, arms crossed. Old Hollywood.

She is a definition of aesthetic.

Something tells you she could kill with nothing more than her perfectly coiffed curls. Even her heels are dangerously pointy.

Curse whoever started the phrase, but you’d very much like it if she stepped on you.

For reasons you can’t grasp, the shorter woman’s eyes roll.

She hauls herself standing, shifts a semi-step closer to the intimidatingly pretty one.

Said pretty one takes a drag on a Marlboro. The ring it rests on glows in the soft light. Smoke billows.

It’s dramatically attractive.

“You should get a Juul. Healthier.”

Mortified that’s the first thing you say to her.

Can’t take it back now.

She squints.

“Now I’m sure you’ve poisoned it, Sabrina. It’s mumbling gibberish.”

“It’s an e-cigarette, Aunt Zee. Vapor instead of smoke.”

“See? Nonsense.”

She turns — hair bounces in slow motion — leaves.

You’re sure you’ve offended, and you’re pretty sure you already regret it, but it’s true.

Plus, she called you an  _it_.

Guilt lessens.

A hand on the forearm.

You nearly shriek, but it’s the nice lady smiling down at you.

“Sorry about Zelda, dear. She quite likes her Marlboro’s, ever since she had a hand in the invention, you see. Never mind. I think you need some cake, yeah?”

She bustles off.

You wonder when this — whatever this alternate reality you’ve fallen into is — will start making sense.

Zelda.

Cake.

Marlboros.

You think back on its history.

Couldn’t say accurately, it’s birth.

1924? 1908?

Oh, what absurdity.

It’s 2019.

No one ages that well.

Most haven’t survived so much time.

What on earth have they put in your tea?

 

~*~

 

The cake is delicious.

Carrot, of all things.

Ginger and cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. Frosting thick enough to swim in, glaze running over the sides and sticking with crumbs and crushed walnuts.

You lick the plate clean.

To do anything else would be a travesty of fine dining.

British lilt amused, the nice lady laughs as you tongue a minuscule frosting remnant off the porcelain.

“Enjoy it, petal?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, miss... ?”

“Oh, none of that now. It’s Auntie Hilda.”

Nod in thanks again. She takes your plate.

You sigh.

Suppose it’s time to leave.

“The rain should end in an hour or so. Then you can scoot. Till then, why rush?”

She laughs again as you squint suspicious.

She only winks.

Still, it is rather cozy in here, and the rain is still bullying the outdoors something fierce.

Jack Johnson croons from the corner Victrola.

It’s not a tough decision.

You stay.

 

~*~

 

In a span of an hour, you’ve met an assortment of characters.

Re-met Zelda — who you will  _not_  be calling Auntie — met the ugliest and most comatose dog you’ve ever seen, met a dashing young man named Ambrose who’d given you a salute and disappeared, and now have become established as Sabrina’s newly decided best friend.

She tells you everything you could ever desire (and much you do not) about her high school soap dramas.

Prudence is a bully, Roz needs to do something about Susie but honestly, they’re both  _hopeless_  — she and Harvey are in a rough patch at the moment.

She says it breezily, as one would discuss the weather, but the weather currently is tumultuous, which describes the emotion splayed over her face to a T.

You place a hand on her arm, comfort infused, and sweetly ask for another piece of cake.

A good-natured minute of silence as she acquiesces, and then monologue returns, this time to the “aunts.”

“You wouldn’t believe the places they’ve gone together! Belgium, Rome, St. Petersburg, Nairobi, Cairo, Lima, Hong Kong — and yet when  _I_  want to go on a tiny little trip to Canada, they get all —“

“So, they’re sisters?” You ask, curious to know family dynamic.

Not sure why it matters. Somehow, it does.

Her nose wrinkles.

“What makes you say that?”

“They look similar.”

“Hilda’s British.”

“Well I never said it made sense.”

She ponders it harder, eyes staring at walls, not taking in the art as she peruses her personal-fact archive.

“They met at some snobby Academy way back when. Had the same major, started a business together after they graduated. Midwives. Then morticians.”

She laughs at your raised brow.

“I know. They’ve done a lot in between those professions too. Right now, they’re cafe owners. Someday, they’ll probably own a ranch or something and just disappear.”

“And how do you know all this about them?”

“Zelda’s my dad’s sister. She adopted me when he died.”

You mutter condolences.

Chin up, shoulders broad, she smiles and tries very hard to not seem lost.

“The aunties are really all I’ve ever known, so...” She shrugs, as if it settles the matter.

A fact pokes into your mind.

“They’re married?”

Her laugh is startling, a guffaw.

“God, no. You’ve never seen them argue. They’d kill each other.”

Somehow, that’s very disappointing.

Her mirth dies slowly, and her eyes grow thoughtful.

“Yeah... no. They’re not married. They’re just... They’re roommates.”

The Internet demon that possesses your humor howls, proud and unrelenting and hideous.

_Oh my god._

_They’re roommates_.

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t take rain to make you visit again.

Hilda’s confections had been calling to you the minute you’d stepped out of the shop.

You consider it a great show of restraint to wait the customary two days before returning.

Or perhaps that’s the rule when texting.

Well, rules be damned, you’re here.

Order espresso, because you don’t need to nap again.

It’s got a sweet bite; the tiny cup warms every inch of your body.

Hilda’s made fresh cinnamon rolls.

You praise the gods of sugar and calories and loose wallets.

You order two.

 

~*~

 

You become a regular at the shop.

You’re not the only one.

Sabrina’s friends pop in frequently, chewing baked confections in between rants on intersectional feminism and guesses as to what sort of socks Guillermo del Toro wears.

Ambrose occasionally joins the conversation to describe the annals of historical events and how everything leading up to the Internet explains why ABBA only ever produced what we now call bops.

Sabrina complains that they still haven’t gone to Greece, and it only whips up a new round of economical debate on airfare and jet fuel and passports.

You can’t help but drown a little in the noise and appreciate the quieter patrons just a touch more.

There’s a woman who strolls in every Sunday, looking for all the world like she’s just done something very naughty and knows she will get away with it.

Her charisma is alluring, danger and Dior.

Zelda makes sure she’s the one to serve her. They always argue about something, then Zelda walks away blushing.

If that’s the sort of flirting you’ve got to look forward to in 15 years, you’ll be very lucky.

Or very maladjusted.

Whatever.

It’s hot.

Another visits frequently, and you’re very sure he is a vampire.

His fingernails long and pointy, eyes rimmed with kohl, prone to fits of glaring, he is a moon son.

Pleasant enough at his seat near the door, but even still.

You hunker your neck further into your sweater and feel like a turtle.

And then there’s a wannabe vampire who visits even more frequently.

He’s got salt and pepper hair, puppy dog eyes, and a gaze that’s all for Hilda.

They are so gently teasing together.

Sweet as honeycombs, it sticks in your ribs awkwardly. The same way Zelda’s mystery woman gets you hot under the collar but itching too.

Say what you will in speculation, nothing fits so right as when Zelda and Hilda are at the counter together, elbows brushing as they prep mugs and muffins.

The way Zelda tugs Hilda’s curls when she gets distracted, a touch on her shoulder as an afterthought.

How Hilda reminds Zelda of her blood pressure, sends her to the back when customer chatter turns bull roar.

How they both glare at the patrons sweet on their business partners. Hover around behind the counter, silent. Hearts in the eyes and so wary for loss.

You point it out to Sabrina.

Nose ever wrinkling, she disagrees.

“They’re just in a good mood today, that’s all.”

You see how Zelda is sipping coffee, relaxed and murmuring conversation with Hilda, who’s wiping down the counter in unhurried strokes.

Zelda makes some comment about Hilda and messes.

Hilda laughing. Zelda smiling.

“No.” You say.

“I’m pretty sure they’re in love.”

 

~*~

 

It seems any universe, alternate or the one you’re used to, likes proving you wrong.

In the span between last Sunday and this Saturday, something has drastically changed.

There’s a thundercloud in the cafe, just waiting to pour out ugly.

The two women are nowhere to be found.

You ask Sabrina what gives.

A shrug your only answer.

“Neither will tell me anything. Hilda’s been sleeping in the guest room.”

Your look incredulous, she scowls as she clarifies.

“They have separate beds, you weirdo. And a table in between.”

“Easily enough shoved together.”

“Hmph.”

You sip your latte.

It tastes like an angry singe.

Disappointed, you bite into your scone.

Still good, but not Hilda’s magic standard.

Relationship exploding bad enough, now there’s shrapnel in your diet.

What misery.

Sabrina looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

Hilda sweeps in from out the kitchen. You perk up, hoping to find the source of this strange new tension.

She glares.

Very un-Hilda.

Sabrina’s look of “ _I told you so_ ” smarts.

Chagrined, you ask her for another latte. Less burnt.

She frowns apologetically.

“I’ve never used the machine. Aunt Zee won’t even let me near it, all because last time I may or may not have started a little fire.”

You catalogue that story, store it for another time when the mood’s right to enjoy it.

First, fixing the aunts, for whom you’ve come to love like family.

They belong together.

Whether you or Sabrina is right, that remains clear.

They need each other.

They are the Castor and Pollux of modern-day mythology.

It’s side by side or not at all.

Preferably former, rather than latter. You cross your fingers, hope for the best, and then you and Sabrina get to work.

 

~*~

 

It takes you three different doors, but eventually you find the kitchen.

Hilda is whacking a poor, inanimate ball of dough with her rolling pin.

Wrapped up in a daisy apron and coated with flour, there’s still an unmistakable niggling in the back of your mind: there’s danger here.

Ire looks scary on anybody.

Especially one who uses it infrequently.

“Aunt Hilda,” voice placating, hands reaching out soft, as though she’s a skitterish deer and not a woman capable of knocking a concussion smack dab in the middle of your forehead. “Hi there.”

Lame greeting.

She knows it too, hasn’t the patience for it.

“What.”

 _Very_  un-Hilda.

“Sabrina’s out in the shopfront.”

A deep sigh.

“What’s she done now?”

“Nothing.”

Her look speaks volumes.

“Burnt a few things.”

Her nod says she’d expected as much.

“But that’s not why I’m here. She said things have been... tense, between you and Zelda?”

Her shoulders bunch up. She pounds the dough a little harder. You take a step back.

“She should know better than anyone how we squabble. That’s all. A little squabbling.”

The way she’s throttling the rolling pin handle says otherwise.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She stops. Pauses long. Bites her lower lip.

The tension leaves her body in a released breath and strong force of will.

“No, darling. Thank you. But no. If I discuss things, I’d prefer it just between me and Zelda. And if Zelda and I are to discuss anything, she has to come to me.”

You sigh, turn to go.

“She’ll have to pull her head out of her arse, first.” Is muttered under breath behind you.

You can’t quell your grin, but you do leave.

 

~*~

 

Seven doors this time, before you open one to Zelda’s office.

Pitch black, except for the laptop on the desk, Vivien Leigh cries from her black-and-white saga.

You hear a sniffle.

You close the door.

 

~*~

 

“They can’t keep this up.”

You could see it in Hilda’s grip, heard it in Zelda’s hidden silence.

“I know,” Sabrina agrees. “They haven’t stayed mad at each other this long since I tried to perform an exorcism.”

This girl.

Keeps getting stranger with every time she opens her mouth.

Her grin is sheepish to your bewilderment.

“The problem is,” you say, ignoring hers. “They won’t stop avoiding each other.”

Sabrina snaps her fingers.

Somewhere, a door opens.

“I think I know just the thing.”

 

~*~

 

You’re not sure how Sabrina’s managed to lure Zelda into the food pantry, but she swears she’s done it.

Hilda is easy.

All you had to do was question her ability to make croquembouche.

Supplies in the closet, you'd shut the door on her once she’d entered.

You and Sabrina sit against it, wait for the ensuing war.

It’s silent for a solid five minutes.

Then, an insistent tugging on the doorknob.

Then, “Oh, for Satan’s sake, Hilda. You’re giving me a headache.”

Your look is questioning, Sabrina looks at the ceiling.

“Well what do you expect me to do? I’m stuck in here.”

“With me, yes. I can see how horrid that is for you.”

“You haven’t been the cheeriest of company lately, if you hadn’t noticed. Excuse me if I needed a little space.”

“I won’t.”

“Must you be so insufferable?”

“Must you be so heartless?”

“You didn’t ask me, Zelda! I would have considered it more if you’d told me first.”

“But it didn’t happen. And you told me so yourself, you’d have said no.”

“It was a baby! Zelda, you almost adopted a  _baby_. And you didn’t even think to mention it to me, not even once.”

“How could I? You’ve been with that stupid man every night. The only time I see you anymore is during business hours —  _not_  the time to talk about such things.”

A frustrated noise. 

“So you decide a baby will keep you the company that I can’t?”

Hands slap thighs, an audible sign Zelda’s hands have given up holding themselves in the air.

“I don’t know!”

Quieter. 

“I don’t know. Sabrina’s growing up. Ambrose more absent with every day. And clearly, I can’t make you stay. So what am I to do?”

“Who says I’m not staying?”

A scoff. 

“Don’t play stupid, Hilda. It’s not as flattering as you think.”

“Then stop being such a defensive ninny. Answer the question. Who says I’m not staying?”

Floundering huffs. 

Then —

“I’ve seen the open tabs, Hilda. You’re looking at apartments.”

Deep breath out.

“Zelda, you completely, utterly, insanely over-dramatic woman. Those aren’t for me.”

“What?”

“That  _stupid man_  I’ve been spending time with? He’s moving. I’m helping because he promised me all his baking equipment.  _Expensive_  baking equipment.” 

Choked sound.

Silence. 

“Oh.”

A sigh so full of exasperated affection.

“Come here, you.”

The unmistakable sound of lips colliding. 

Sabrina, blushing and abashed. 

You, victorious, punching the air like Judd Nelson. 

There’s a low moan. 

Heat rises to your cheeks. 

“Our work here is done. Let’s go.”

 

~*~

 

“So...”

You’re not floundering for words, per se. 

You may never be able to look at those two the same way, without giggling or grinning so hard your cheeks might shatter, but it’s not like that could keep you from maintaining a conversation. 

“So.”

Sabrina is equally witless. 

You remember something that doesn’t short circuit your brain as much. 

“What’s this about Satan’s sake?”

“Well...”

 

~*~

 

It ends as most happy things do — with sunshine.

You whistle, walking under store canopies, skip in your step as you burst through familiar doors. 

Salem meows when you step over him. Sabrina grins in hello. 

The aunties are at the counter, arguing about napkin shades.

Their elbows brush together.

You smile. 

Sabrina hands you an apron, shaking her head at your enthusiasm. 

“Okay, newbie, stop being weird. You’re on the job.”

The door opens. 

New, bedraggled customer you’ve never seen before. 

Sabrina nudges you. 

You know the words to say.

They fall out like they belong there. 

“Hi, welcome to Brews & Bites. What’s your poison?”

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't kidding when i said this was nonsense. ;p  
> but if we're not here to indulge in nonsense, what are we here for?


End file.
